


one more word and you won't survive

by blueberrytea



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill, ish, john murphy is innocent, rated for excessive swearing, season 1 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrytea/pseuds/blueberrytea
Summary: John Murphy says something he shouldn't have.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Eyes on Fire" by Blue Foundation.
> 
> For murphamyandclexaforever, who generously provided me with prompts when I put out the word. The prompt was "Murphy was with bellamy in his tent the whole night of wells' murder(charlotte is a crazy bitch)" and I FEEL IT SO MUCH  
> This was actually really difficult to write? (It was also meant to be like under 300 words??) I felt like I couldn't get the characterization quite right, no matter how hard I tried. Anyway, enjoy these losers and their first-season feelings.

“My what? _My what?_ ”

“Your little sister.” Murphy tears himself from Bellamy’s white-knuckle grip on his jacket, their separation stinging like ripped skin.

“Yeah, that’s right. My little sister.” Bellamy’s features are frigid. “Got anything else you wanna say about her?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

Murphy resists the red-hot urge to sneer at Bellamy’s overprotectiveness, instead adopting an immovable glare to counter the one directed at him. Bellamy breaks eye contact and glances at Adam’s body on the ground.

“Get him outta here,” he says, voice cracking as he gestures at the body.

Acid rises in Murphy’s gut. He grimaces, throws his knife at a nearby tree, and disappears into darkness as the eyes of the 100 warily follow.

~*~

The night is deep and full of spaces; the air inside it has been chopped up and then shrunk, leaving wide, yawning gaps in between. Murphy slouches through them, a sense of urgency shoving him forward on every other step.

He’s been up for hours, now. Thinking too fucking much. Thankfully, the cool air smooths some of his stifling thoughts away--save for the ones that cling to him like leeches, eager to suck him dry.

He doesn’t feel _guilty_ for calling Bellamy’s freak sister a psycho, he just--maybe he went further than he wanted to. Maybe he didn’t think that Bellamy would get so fucking pissed about it.

Murphy’s breath catches when the tent reaches his view. He forces his lungs into compliance: expand, contract. He stares at the mesh window, view obstructed by a thin sheet of nylon on the other side.

“Fuck,” he mutters, way too loudly, turning violently around and sitting down so hard his tailbone aches. “God fucking dammit.”

About thirty-five seconds pass before he starts at the sound of a tent zipper.

“Murphy?”

Murphy is frozen; all of his blood has dropped out of his body and turned to ice.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” Bellamy’s voice is free of sleep, but it rasps like he’s been breathing too heavily.

Murphy takes his time with a response.

“Stargazing.”

Bellamy scoffs.

“Fucking stalker. I bet you’ve been waiting here all goddamn night.”

Sourness plain on his features, Murphy whips around to face a dishevelled, barefoot and wholly unrested Bellamy.

“You’ve got a real pretty mouth to be spitting out such a load of shit.” He smiles derisively, nose scrunching. “I couldn’t sleep. I was taking a walk.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

Bellamy shakes his head.

“Then why the hell are you here, Murphy?”

All Murphy can do is shrug aggressively and avoid Bellamy’s eyes.

“I dunno.”

Exasperation colors Bellamy’s face as he combs his hair with his fingers.

“Jesus, would you stop that?” he bursts out.

“Stop what?”

“That thing with your leg.”

Murphy’s knee stills instantly--he hadn’t realized it had been moving.

“You look like a wreck.” Bellamy’s expression changes minutely; something like concern worms its way in.

“Thanks,” comes Murphy’s vapid reply.

“I mean it, are you--”

“Yeah, I know. I know I look like shit, okay? I always look like shit.” Murphy hauls himself to his feet, turning sharply. It was stupid, a stupid idea. He should’ve stayed in his own fucking tent.

“Hey--hey!” He hears Bellamy rush to follow him just before his arm is caught in the same vice grip from earlier by the campfire.

“You’re gonna fucking wake everyone up.”

“No, I’m not.” Bellamy’s hold tightens. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Murphy.”

“I said nothing!” Murphy wrenches free, a sense of déjà vu creeping into his stomach. Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow, confused disbelief settling over his features.

“Wait, are you--are you mad? Are you mad about what happened earlier?”

“No! Fuck, I just--” Murphy’s throat is tight when he tries to swallow. He lowers his voice. “I’m sorry I fucking called your sister psycho, okay? I didn’t fucking mean it, so can you just leave me the hell alone?”

Realization sneaks quietly over Bellamy’s face. He smiles, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck you,” Murphy spits, just for good measure. Bellamy lets out a breathless laugh.

“Who would’ve thought?” he drawls, words sounding free with something like relief. “ _John Murphy_ losing sleep over _me._ ”

“Go to hell.”

Another laugh escapes from Bellamy’s mouth.

“Shut up!” Murphy’s skin itches. He feels ready to combust.

Suddenly the laughter is gone, lost to the spaces in the air. Bellamy’s dark eyes flick to the tops of the trees.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he murmurs. “It’s just that when you say that kind of thing about my sister, I...”  Murphy is fixed with a dangerous gaze. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I already said I didn’t mean it.”

The stare breaks into a smile as Bellamy shakes his head.

“Sure you did. Listen, we shouldn’t fight like that.”

Murphy blinks at him.

“Okay.”

Bellamy nods, biting his lip. Wariness prickles at the palms of Murphy’s hands.

“Hey, is there, like...something you wanna tell me? You’re kind of--you’re being really weird.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just...”

The humor falls again from Bellamy’s features as one of his hands anchors in Murphy’s hair, the other resting on the nape of his neck. Murphy has no time to process, no time to think.

“What are you--”

Bellamy’s mouth.

Bellamy’s mouth _on his_.

Murphy panics.

“What the _fuck?"_  He’s wild-eyed when he shoves Bellamy away, he can feel it. Strands of his hair, let loose by Bellamy’s hands, have flicked into his face.

Bellamy stills.

“Come on, Murphy,” he says. “‘You’ve got a pretty mouth’? You’re about as subtle as a gunshot to the head.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just--” All of Murphy’s words shrivel up as he tries to grab at them. He swallows again but it’s dry; it feels like his throat chafes itself. When his tongue darts out, the taste of Bellamy is all over his lips.

“Fuck you,” he repeats, and in the end, it’s his body that makes the desicion for him.

Soon he’s throwing himself at Bellamy, fingernails finding purchase in the soft flesh of biceps. Bellamy’s hands are quick to outline the brackets of his hips, thumbs digging in just next to the bone. Murphy spasms, blood singing, body uncontrollable, hands adhered to damp skin. He twitches in Bellamy’s arms.

He needs, he _needs_. How long has he needed this much?

“Easy,” Bellamy murmurs, steadying him. Murphy shakes his head and nudges Bellamy in the direction of his tent, to which Bellamy nods, allowing himself to be driven backward while the same wicked smile never leaves his mouth.

“Who would’ve thought?” Bellamy’s eyes, half-lidded, glitter in the low light. “ _John Murphy_ losing sleep over _me_.”

“Shut the hell up,” is all that Murphy replies as he pushes Bellamy into the tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I cut it off at the good part eep  
> If y'all really want some smoot I might (most definitely) be able to be convinced ^^  
> Feel free to hit me up on tumblr at @blue-berry-tea!


End file.
